Though Wind Be in the West
by Caitlinlaurie
Summary: To rule Gondor and Arnor was always his destiny. Always. Second in my Echoes of Númenor series.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Though Wind Be in the West

**Author:** Caitlinlaurie

**Rating:** T, for some Dark Themes

**Fandom:** Buffy/LOTR

**Summary:** To rule Gondor and Arnor was always his destiny. Always.

**Warnings/Notes:** This is the next part in my Echoes of Númenor series. I try to stick faithfully to Buffy canon through Season Five, and to LOTRs canon history, up to this story. After the Prologue, we're getting into AU territory. There is a major non-canon _Silmarillion _pairing which is part of the story, and setup for a majorly non-canon LOTRs pairing. If you don't like this, I won't be offended if you don't read.

I try to be as faithful as possible to the history, themes, and intent of Tolkien's work. I also used the first five seasons of Buffy for references, and _The Hobbit_, _The Lord of the Rings_ Trilogy (and the Appendices), _The Silmarillion_, _The Unfinished Tales_, _The Lays of Beleriand_, and _The Peoples of Middle-earth_.

**Disclaimer:**All BTVS characters and their canon histories are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. All LOTRs characters and their canon histories are the property of the Tolkien Estate.

* * *

_All that is gold does not glitter,  
Not all those who wander are lost;  
The old that is strong does not wither,  
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.  
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,  
A light from the shadows shall spring;  
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,  
The crownless again shall be king._

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, Strider, The Fellowship of the Ring_

* * *

Prologue

_2931, the Third Age, the Angle, Eriador_

The winter wind was howling, rattling against the western mullioned windows of the Great Hall as six of the seven men present crowded near the central fire. Winter had been an unforgiving season that year, with the snows and frosts lingering beyond their proper time, reminding the inhabitants of Middle-earth of the Fell Winter twenty years before. Too many of the Dúnedain had died that miserable year, many of the older who took their wisdom with them, and many of the younger who had not yet had the chance to live. It had been simply another reminder to the remnant of the Men of the West that life was unforgiving, and Middle-earth a cruel mistress.

Though many inhabitants of Eriador had forgotten the Lost Kingdom of Arnor, which had once stood a hundred thousand men-at-arms strong, and would not know the name were it to be spoken to them, the Dúnedain were not of that number. Within their company, the mere ten thousand who remained, the tales of Númenor and the fleeing Exiles and their nine ships, led by Elendil, stayed present in their hearts. So too did the tales of the North Kingdom, and the Kingdoms of Arthedain, Rhudaur, and Cardolan. The peoples of Rhudaur and Cardolan had all either perished, or joined the houses of their kin in Arthedain, but they still remembered. And eventually, when it was required of them, the last people of Arthedain, and the only remaining remnants of the North Kingdom, traveled east to the Angle.

The Angle was the land that the Dúnedain had settled on in the remains of the fallen kingdom of Rhudaur. The land was set between the Bruinen and Mitheithel rivers, making it a fertile planting ground, and also an easily defensible place. The only real trouble they had to be constantly looking for was from the trolls, who resided in the Trollshaws directly at the Angle's northern border. The Dúnedain had learned this lesson in blood when, the previous year, their Chieftain had paid for his negligence with his life.

It was to the Dúnedain that these seven men in the Great Hall belonged, and it was the Dúnedain that these seven men led. All of them were descended from Elendil, the first High King, and through his son Isildur, and grandson Valandil, and down through the line of Kings of Arnor, the Kings of Arthedain, and finally the first Chieftain of the Dúnedain, Aranarth. Six of the men in the room were descended from Aranarth's daughter, and were distaff heirs of Elendil.

The seventh man, the one who did not seek the fire, was not of the distaff line. He was of the male line of direct dissent, stretching from father to son since the time of the Exiles. And he was the reason all the men whom he called kinsmen were gathered in the chilly Hall that night. He was their Chieftain and Lord, and it was his right to detain them, though all the men present remained of their own free will. Long had the time come since they should have sought their beds in their own homes, but a heavy errand made them all crowd together for warmth and wait with nervous impatience.

Yet, even though the chill of the Hall seemed to penetrate down to their very bones, it was still a better shelter than was to be found anywhere else in the Angle. The majority of the Dúnedain lived in timber houses with thatched roofs, and only one fire in the center of the home, requiring the occupants to encircle it at nighttime in the winter. The Hall of the Chieftain, however, was not like this at all. It was the only stone building in the Angle, and it was larger than any other dwelling. It had attached housing for the Lord and his family, along with several rooms devoted to lore taken from Númenor and the remnants of the Northern Kingdom. It was the meeting place for all affairs of the Dúnedain, as well as the place where the magistrate rendered his rulings. The Hall was the most important dwelling in the Angle, and the only fixed one as the majority of the northern Dúnedain still feared the Shadow of the East and the echoes of Angmar, and were prepared to, at any moment, become a traveling people once more.

Near the fire, the six men who sat there had occasionally tried for conversation to while away the time as they waited. None of them dared to address the Chieftain, the seventh of their company, for he would do naught but pace the floor up and down, waiting, waiting, waiting. Of those seated there, three held the first blushes of youth, untried and barely past the age of twenty-five when they had reached their majority. The three others were older, more seasoned with wrinkles upon their brows, and grey in their beards, but none of the men could be called old. Men of the Dúnedain rarely reached old age any more, as ever were the servants of the Shadow at their backs.

Finally, breaking the silence, one of the older said, "This cold has settled in my lungs. I think it shall ne'er be spring again."

"I am sure that it will warm soon, Dírhael," another elder replied. "It would be unseasonable if we had snow much longer."

Dírhael snorted in response. "Even if it does break soon, brother, I think floods shall plague us and we will lose what little crop we have. You would know little of the troubles of the Angle, Halmír, always coming and going as you are, but a long winter never bodes well."

Halmír rolled his eyes. "You might concern yourself with crops, brother. I am more concerned with the Orcs and trolls once the thaw comes. The Orcs especially will be restless, having been shunted in the Misty Mountains. After the air warms and the frost melts, they shall descend on us like locusts. Am I not right, Halamon? What do you think, brother?"

Their third brother, the second born and always torn between the elder and younger, tilted his head in agreement. Halamon then said, "They shall certainly look to strike back in force. It has been too quiet lately. For several years now we have been on the verge of something; I can feel it in my heart. They wait for some mischievous purpose, but I think not for long. There is no true patience in an Orc, and so we can only conclude that something holds them back. Only like a dam, they shall soon burst forth and flood the unprepared valley."

"I agree, Uncle," one of the three younger men said. "We should send out patrols as soon as maybe."

"You are foolish, my son," Dírhael said, addressing the golden-haired youth. "You would do much better to stay in the Angle and help with the planting, not following after your uncles in their damn fool missions, Dírlond."

"I am a Ranger at heart, _Atarinya_," his son Dírlond replied. "I can be naught else."

"And what about you both, my sons?" Halamon asked, turning to the two other young men. "Do you sit so quietly while your cousin urges our departure?"

"Father, we are at your command. I know that Halsereg and I will both answer the call when you tell us we are to leave to defend our people," the elder of the two said.

"That is well said, Halbarad," Halmír, his uncle, said. "Though I think you should let your brother speak for himself. I do not think he likes to be a Ranger as you do."

"Nonsense," Halamon declared. "Both my sons are Rangers and into the saddle born. Neither of them would stay behind here with the women while we travel in the wilds." Turning to his younger son, Halsereg, he asked, "Is this not right?"

"Of course, Father," Halsereg answered quietly. "I could not stay when you, my uncle, my cousin, and my brother depart."

"Oh, stop bullying him, brother," Dírhael said. "You both have already turned my son into a Ranger and a wild thing, which must please you; it is not necessary for both your sons, Halamon, to be Orc hunters."

"You know," Halmír commented idly, "when I return from the wilds, it rarely takes more than an evening in my brothers' company, and that of their sons, to be reminded why I am a bachelor."

The younger generation laughed, while his two brothers looked at him askance.

"You should have married," Dírhael said seriously. "The blood of Westernesse dwindles continuously, and our people are few. It is your responsibility as our father's firstborn to marry and perpetuate our bloodline."

Though he often tended to be contrary, Dírhael's words were true enough. Halmír, Halamon, and Dírhael were the sons of Gilbarad, and of the only line left of Aranarth's daughter. Halmír was the firstborn, and should have been the first to marry and produce children, but his heart had always belonged to the wild. He rarely tarried in the Angle among his people if he could help it, much preferring the cold ground to a straw bed.

His younger brothers, Halamon and Dírhael, had both done their duty and produced two children each. Halamon had married a common woman, called Seregaina, and produced two sons, Halbarad and Halsereg. Dírhael had married the Lady Ivorwen, and produced a son and a daughter, Dírlond and Gilraen.

Gilraen, new wife of the Chieftain, and the very reason the seven men were assembled that night.

Though the descendants of Aranarth's daughter were merely a distaff line, their importance among the Dúnedain was not due to their birth, but to the service they had always rendered their Chieftains. Halmír was the Chieftain's Second, and auxiliary leader of the Rangers, and always kept company with the Lord of the Dúnedain when he departed from the safety of his people. Halamon was in charge of training the new Rangers as they joined up, and his two sons and nephew were among the current batch of men he was leading. Dírhael, on the other hand, was much in charge of life among the settled peoples of the Angle. He served as magistrate and Master of the Moot, and was well regarded among the Dúnedain.

But all of the descendants of Aranarth, whatever their employment, were first and foremost defenders of their Chieftains and those of their line. Even more so now.

"Oh, will it ever be over," Halbarad murmured quietly.

"Hush, my son," Halamon said, looking nervously from his son to their Chieftain who never ceased in his pacing. "You would not wish your cousin ill, I think."

"Nay, _Atarinya_," Halbarad said. "But it has already been a day. Does this bode well?"

"Aye," Halsereg agreed, turning to Dírhael. "Uncle, can you not summon my Aunt, and find out if our cousin is in danger? Has the time come to worry?"

Dírhael turned his head and looked steadily into the fire. "If something goes wrong, nephew, I would not summon Ivorwen from our daughter's side. This is women's business, and the last thing she needs is for me to interfere and distract her."

"My sister will be well," Dírlond suddenly said. "She is strong. There is naught much which can deter her for long."

"None of us can know whether my daughter will be well," Dírhael admonished his son softly. "We shall simply have to trust in the One, and the Valar, that she will be."

"It bodes ill; do you not think," Halsereg asked quietly, "that my cousin should be brought to bed two weeks early and in the midst of winter?"

"I do not take it so," his uncle Halmír said. "These things happen when they will happen, and to look for portents where there might be none often leads to trouble."

"But what if—"

"Stop."

All six men near the fire turned in surprise. Their Lord, and kinsman, had ceased pacing and was looking in their direction. "I would not hear any more," the Chieftain said. "You compound my worries, and it is obvious that you have all been idle for too long. Let there be no more talk of any theme that is not fair. Morning comes soon, and it is now the first day of _Gwaeron_, and _that _is a good omen, this I know."

As if in answer to his words, at that moment there was a movement on the stairs and all seven men turned to the far side of the Hall where they saw a woman descending from the rooms above. It was Ivorwen, wife of Dírhael and mother of Gilraen and Dírlond, and she was smiling broadly and carrying a bundle in her arms.

The men near the fire stood suddenly, their eyes full of excitement, mixed with worry and hope. They all turned to look at the Chieftain, who seemed to have a peculiar expression upon his visage.

His face was visible to all his kinsmen, and it seemed to many of them as though he was suffused with awe. He stared, almost hungrily at the burden Ivorwen carried, but waited silently and patiently for her to approach him. As she drew closer, he slowly backed up towards the central fire, so the sole source of warmth of the room was provided to her and that precious bundle which she carried.

She stopped before her Chieftain and son-in-law at length, bowing to him and smiling. "The Lady of the Dúnedain commends herself to her husband and lord. She bids me tell you that she has born a son. The old wife who attended your lady declared him strong and sound of limb. Shall he be claimed?"

Ivorwen then placed the baby in her arms upon the floor, the woven rushes crunching slightly as she did so. She then smiled at her husband Dírhael and went to stand by his side, squeezing his hand in greeting. Nodding at her brothers, nephews, and son, she stood patiently, waiting for a decision to be made and their Chieftain and kinsman to act.

The Chieftain reached down and lifted the infant into his arms, smiling as he did so. He then unbound the baby's swaddling, checking, as was tradition, the baby's fitness and sex. After a long moment, in which he seemed happily lost in the joy of holding a son, he finally pronounced, "Kinsmen, my wife has given me a son. He shall be my heir, and one day your future Lord and Chieftain when I am gone."

All the men smiled then, and relaxed, proclaiming the old phrases of good fortune and best wishes. They all then relaxed, happy to receive good reports from Ivorwen, her mother.

"Gilraen is very well," Ivorwen said. "She was strong and endured patiently. The babe shall not be possessed with fear, for never once did she cry out."

"My sister is strong," Dírlond cried, "and any boy born of her body shall be as like to a mighty and revered king."

The men laughed and celebrated, while their Lord watched them with a smile, his gaze mostly fixed on his son. Eventually, Dírhael, the Lord's father by marriage, walked over and looked down at the baby boy who was slumbering in his Chieftain's arms.

"What are you going to call him?" his father-in-law asked.

All of the kinsmen suddenly quieted, eager to know the answer. The baby's naming day would not come for another nine days, but as they were all kin they could know his name before it was formally announced without breaking tradition.

The Chieftain looked at the faces of his blood and married family, and smiled.

Arathorn, son of Arador, looked down at the baby in his arms and knew that his son was meant for greatness. His name would be remembered, long after he was gone from Middle-earth, so the name should be a good one. Giving it some consideration, as he had not allowed himself to do before so as not to curse his wife's pregnancy, he thought of his mighty forbearers and then smiled. Just as he was named for an ancestor, so should his son be. And looking down at the tiny baby, a flash of foresight entered Arathorn's mind, and he knew that one day a crown, one other than the Elendilmir, would adorn his son's head.

"I think, brother, you had the right of it," Arathorn said, grinning at Dírlond. "He shall be a Revered King indeed, called Aragorn, the second of that name."

As soon as the words were spoken, the wind outside died down and within the hour, dawn began creeping over the horizon. Those of the Great Hall could not know it, but the winter snows would trouble them no more that year.

Spring had come to Middle-earth.

* * *

_2932, the Third Age, the Angle, Eriador_

The summer sun was blazing overhead, making life for all near unbearable, but the family of the Chieftain had some relief from its rays under the shades of the trees in their garden. When the Dúnedain had resettled Rhudaur, the foundations of the Great Hall had been put down upon the ruins of where a great fortress had once stood. The foundation stones had therefore been reused, but nothing remained that would give tell to what Angabarad had truly looked like. The only remnant of that once mighty fortress was a sunken garden, which had been restored and faithfully tended by all the ladies of the Chieftain's house in the years to follow, until it had reached its current splendor.

It was a favorite place of the current lady, and she often took her sewing there in the mornings when it was cool. Gilraen loved being surrounded by things that grew, some throwback to her ancient elven ancestry, and it was a pleasure to be mistress of such a place. Her mother-in-law, Alpharien, and her barely toddling son Aragorn, often accompanied her.

They had done just that today, but they were also joined that day by her husband who had recently returned from a hunting trip with the twin sons of Elrond. It was the plan for another such trip in the near future to which the Lady of the Dúnedain was then entreating her husband against.

"I wish you would not go," Gilraen said firmly. "My uncles lead the Rangers well; you are needed here among your people."

"My people only live here in peace and safety, including you and my son," her husband Arathorn answered, "because I make these expeditions."

"Your father only died two years ago, _senya_," Alpharien said quietly, for she was a timid woman who cared not for strife. "No man would think it odd if you chose to be about your duties here in the Angle until your children were grown, and left the cares of defense to your kinsmen."

"_Ammë_, I would not think well of such a man who let others guard him while he slept peacefully in his bed, and never fought in the cause of his own defense. I would not follow him, and I would not bid my men to either," Arathorn said sternly.

The Chieftain of the Dúnedain was a somber man, who took little joy from the world, except that which he found in his wife and son. Though he dearly loved his mother, he had little patience for what he saw as her female weaknesses. Gilraen was, in many ways, his mother's opposite. She was fair in face and form, while his mother was plain in face and of a dark coloring. Gilraen was also quick to anger and joy and sorrow, her moods evident of her mercurial spirit, in deep contrast to Alpharien, who had a placid nature.

When Arathorn had first seen Gilraen after long years in the wilds, it had been like seeing a star shoot across the heavens. She was called Gilraen the Fair by their people, and Arathorn could not possibly think of a name more apt. Her hair was as bright as the sun—a remnant of long passed royal Númenórean ancestors and a grandmother who hailed from the peoples of the Rohirrim—and she had bright eyes which had caught his mischievously. Within moments of seeing her, Arathorn knew she must be his wife, and had gone to her father before a sen'night had passed, ignoring the fact that Gilraen had not yet reached the age when she might be a bride.

The Chieftain of the Dúnedain had not regretted it, not once, and now that she had given him a son, her husband was even better pleased that his eye had fallen upon her. It was for this reason that Arathorn did not stir to anger when she entreated him, as she did that day.

"I do not like that these sons of Elrond urge the men towards skirmishes," she said, looking at him. "Protect our borders they must do, and give aide to all those who live in Eriador, but why seek such evil out?"

"Gilraen," her husband said patiently. "They lost their mother to the evils of Orcs; they have cause to ride forth and seek them out."

"They did not lose her at all," Gilraen scoffed. "She waits for them across the Sundering Seas in Valinor. Yet, I think, should you be felled by Orcs, as the Lady Celebrían's party was, there will be no healing across the sea for you, my husband."

"Aragorn," the Lord of the Dúnedain called out then, for his son was toddling farther and farther away from the blanket on which his family sat. "Come back, my son."

The toddler walked back towards his parents with a bright smile on his face, happy to be immediately swept up in strong arms when he reached his father. "_Atto_!" he cried, speaking one of the only two words he knew.

Arathorn kissed his son's head, looking over the top of it at his wife. "I should not ever choose to leave you, my love, but I would not be able to be with you now in good conscience if I did not do my all to ensure that the threats to our people and the remains of the Northern Kingdom were fought with all the strength I can muster." He then smiled at her. "All will be well, you'll see. I intend to live to see my son a man, and to eventually bounce grandchildren on my knee."

Gilraen said no more on the subject, but in watching her husband with her son, she couldn't help but feel as though such a sight was to be remembered, for it belonged to a fleeting season.

* * *

_2933, the Third Age, the Angle, Eriador_

The leaves of autumn were just starting to descend, when word reached the Angle of the decimation of the riding party of Rangers. Of the force of twenty men who had gone out hunting Orcs along with the Chieftain's host, led by the sons of Elrond from Rivendell, only five now returned. The rest had all perished, taking with them many of the young men who had been in training to be Rangers, and ripping another generation of fighting men from the Angle. Of the returned came Halamon, and his sons Halbarad and Halsereg.

Arathorn the Chieftain, Halmír his uncle by marriage, and Dírlond his wife's brother also returned with the living Dúnedain, but they returned wrapped in funeral shrouds.

In this one incursion, the Lady Gilraen had lost her uncle, her brother, and her husband.

The Dúnedain lined the fields and streets of the Angle as the procession came down from the North. The men of Westernesse had lost now three Chieftains in the last twenty years, so this horrible sight was becoming all too familiar. They were bereft of leadership once more.

When the procession reached the dwelling of the Chieftain, the body of Arathorn was laid out in state, as it would remain for three days before burial. Gilraen watched the proceedings in silence, clutching her two-year-old son to her chest. She tried not to think of the days to come; the days in which her husband would be laid on a bier and interred beneath a burial mound. With him would go his sword and shield, and the standard of his house.

After the rights were done, the Lady took her son and departed for her sunken garden. Setting Aragorn on the ground, she allowed him to run in the sunlight. He was too young to understand the gravity of what had passed, and it did her good to watch his happiness, though she could feel none of it herself.

"My lady."

Gilraen turned to see her father Dírhael, and her Uncle Halamon. She said to them, "You both look as though you have a heavy errand, though I cannot think what you would say to me as the worst of my fears has already been realized."

"Daughter," Dírhael said softly. "Your uncle and I need to acquaint you with what shall happen next, as we have made several decisions as to your fate, and that of your son."

"Do such decisions fall to you, _Atarinya_?" Gilraen asked quietly. "I do not mean to be disrespectful, Father, but I am no longer of your house."

"Your fate does not fall to us through kinship, niece," Halamon said softly, "but rather as we are members of the Ruling Council. We have spoken with the other members, Galtaur, Culdraug, and Anganim. They are, of course, all that remains of the Council as…"

"As my husband and Uncle Halmír are now dead," Gilraen said firmly. "Come, Uncle; do not couch your meanings behind pretty terms with me."

"It is the Council's responsibility to maintain the house of Valandil if those of the direct line are not yet of age, as such your son's fate lies in our hands," Dírhael cut in, his voice emotional.

"I see," Gilraen said, looking at her son who was chasing a butterfly in the shade of an oak tree. He was a beautiful boy, and was quickly growing into a sturdy and healthy child. So much of her husband could be seen in his face, but Gilraen fancied than her son had a truly Númenórean appearance, and seemed to echo his ancestors more firmly than her husband had.

"My lady," her Uncle Halamon said softly, drawing her from her reverie. "We have to protect the Chieftain."

Gilraen laughed bitterly, turning to her uncle swiftly. "I think my husband is long past the need for your protection, and as he is no longer living, you failed in your charge quite spectacularly."

"Daughter," Dírhael said softly. "He wasn't referring to your late husband."

She started in shock for a moment, and turned to look at her son with dawning comprehension. It came upon her then, the knowledge that her son could not truly be called a mere boy anymore. Nor could he be called an heir to his father. He now was the Dúnadan, and the people would look to him, barely out of babyhood or not.

"What must I do?" she asked softly.

"My Lady Gilraen," Halamon replied, "By decision of the ruling Council, we make for Rivendell."


	2. Chapter One

_When Summer lies upon the world, and in a noon of gold,  
Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves the dreams of trees unfold;  
When woodland halls are green and cool, and wind is in the West,  
Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is best!_

_When Summer warms the hanging fruit and burns the berry brown;_  
_When straw is gold, and ear is white, and harvest comes to town;_  
_When honey spills, and apple swells, though wind be in the West,_  
_I'll linger here beneath the Sun, because my love is best!_

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, Treebeard, The Two Towers_

* * *

Chapter One

The courtyard was full of dead things.

There was nothing healthy in the small, enclosed garden. Planters that ought to be full of flowers and shrubs were empty, and dead roots and a dying tree, with only a few blossoms left, were the only things sticking up from the earth. On the high stone walls, some of which were crumbling, a few living vines still draped them, but they had long since stopped blooming and growing. Fallen leaves adorned the floor like a sparse carpet, crunching under the feet of the combatants as their battle moved into the courtyard.

The taller figure, a man dressed in dark clothing, kicked the smaller fighter onto the cold ground. It was only when they rolled and turned that she was revealed to be a woman. A small woman, with golden hair that brushed her shoulders as she moved. Her face was beautiful, the type that stories were told about, and songs sung for. She was dressed in tan leggings and a fitted black tunic, one sleeve of which was ripped, revealing a bloody wound on her arm. She paid no attention to her injuries though; her focus was on the fight. Her sword clanged as it engaged the man's, slicing cleanly through the air. However, the thrust of the other sword's parry forced her own down, allowing the man to stomp it out of her grip, and backhand her.

She fell, knocking over a stone table as she did. Unarmed, she backed away until her body hit the wall behind her. There was nowhere to go; she was trapped. She looked up at her attacker, her face flashing some fear, and her eyes sad.

The man, though, was smirking as he prowled closer. He gave off a sense of evil, one that simply reeked from him in waves. He had a handsome face, but any beauty in him was ruined by the expression of malicious glee that twisted it. Chuckling, he twirled his sword in an idle move and said, "Now that's everything, huh?"

He pointed the sword at her, tauntingly. "No weapons…no friends…no hope."

The girl closed her eyes, as if bracing herself for the death that was about to claim her.

"Take all that away," he continued mockingly, "and what's left?" The man then drew the sword back and thrust it forward directly at the beautiful girl's face.

She should have been dead.

By all reasoning, she should have perished. Were she a normal girl, she would have been. There was nothing normal, however, about her.

The moment before the blade could slice her face, the girl's hands came up, almost instinctively, clapping on either side of the blade. She then opened her eyes, met her attacker's gaze and answered his question.

"Me."

With great force, using her hold on the blade, she slammed the hilt up into the face of her opponent. He staggered backwards, and she used the momentum to jump to her feet and kick him in the chest. She then grabbed her sword from where it had fallen, swishing it around and engaging his blade once more. The battle recommenced and the girl quickly gained the upper hand. Her blows forced the man down, and then back, pushing him once more into the stone house.

She sliced his hand and disarmed him, and then kicked him, forcing him to his knees. He clutched his injured hand as he fell, gasping. The girl then raised her blade, for the final blow, determination etched on every feature of her face. She would win this, and the man would die.

* * *

_2937, the Third Age, Rivendell, Eriador_

The boy sat up, gasping.

The sheets of his bed had bunched around his waist, and his nightshirt was damp with perspiration from fear. For a moment, he was still there in that cool atrium, with the slight wind and the growing heat from the rising sun. He could almost feel the heightened emotion from the battle, and then the feeling passed and eased away, along with the remnants of the dream.

This was not the first time he had had the dreams, but they never seemed to get easier. They were always the same, or at least the theme of them seemed to be. They were always focused around this same young girl, who, oddly enough, often dressed as a boy, and she was always fighting. Different opponents in different locations, but always really the same. The odd thing lately was the change of one of her comrades into one of her enemies.

It was strange, the reversal of roles. The man, who the girl always called Angel, was the one who would traditionally be the hero in stories of battles and wars. But in these dreams, Angel was secondary to her. The girl, the Slayer, Buffy.

He didn't know if the last word was her name or another title, but it seemed to be what her men-and-women-at-arms called her. Whenever they ran into trouble in skirmishes, they always called out for Buffy, and she always came. She was a hero, a warrior.

And Estel had been dreaming about her for over a year.

At first they were just blurred images quickly forgotten upon waking. Snatches of battles fought and foes defeated. Estel had never seen an Orc before, but the monsters Buffy fought seemed a lot like the descriptions of Orcs he had gotten from Elrohir and Elladan. Eventually, though, the dreams became longer. The battles hadn't necessarily lengthened, but his window of viewing them had, and the details were clearer and he could retain them better when he woke. This last week had seemed to solidify this change.

She fought in some place he had never seen. It could be in Eriador, but from the stories that his brothers had told him, along with his mother's tales of the wilds in which she grew up, he thought not. It could be Bree, or near the Shire. Or perhaps the town Buffy fought in was some place far away, like in Gondor. It was possible, but Estel had no way of knowing. In one of his future dreams it might be clearer. The boy just wished he knew why he was having them, and why they had become so vivid.

Looking over at the mantle, he espied the clock sitting there. It had been a gift to Estel from his Grandfather Dírhael, who had bought it from a halfling in Bree. The small folk loved things that grew, but they could be very industrious in building things they liked, and hobbits were very fond of clocks. Elves though, with their sensitive hearing, hated their ticking sounds and Estel's grandfather had given him a very noisy one. Even though Master Elrond was not a full Elf, he had wanted the contraption as far away from his own person as possible, so he had told his son to keep it in his own rooms and forbade it from being in the common areas.

Squinting his eyes, Estel could just make out the time. It was three in the morning. That meant his birthday had come and he was six now.

Perhaps that was the reason. Six was an important birthday, or at least it felt like it was. It was older than five, certainly, and halfway to thirteen. And, thirteen was practically a man, and the twins had told Estel that they would take him on their Orc hunts once he hit his teens; or at least they would if the boy could convince his mother to let him go. She didn't like the idea though, and neither did his father. They both wanted him to stay in Imladris, and never go anywhere.

It wasn't fair.

They were always keeping secrets from him too. They thought he didn't notice, but he did. Like when that Wizard had visited recently. Estel hadn't been allowed to meet or talk to him. His father had said something about not wanting him to get ideas, but Estel knew that it was because being a friend of the Grey Pilgrim meant going on adventures. He was always coming and going from the Last Homely House with a tale to tell; not that Estel ever heard them any way but secondhand, for, according to his father, he and the Wizard—_were not to meet_.

And his mother was just as bad as his father. Whenever their kin visited from the Angle, she never let them talk to Estel alone. She was always there supervising, as if she thought her son would get into trouble without her! It was humiliating to have his mother always hovering, and never getting a chance to talk to his grandfather and great-uncle on his own. He had other kin that lived with the rest of the Dúnedain, but he had never met them. He had said to his mother once that they might go visit. She had looked as though she wanted to cry at that suggestion, and yet whenever he had asked her why, she always fell silent and wouldn't discuss it.

They were the only humans who lived in Imladris permanently. Many came and went; travelers who lost their way, Rangers of the North who often were his kin, even some adventurers who stopped at the Last Homely House before heading towards the unforgiving Misty Mountains. The rest of the inhabitants of the valley were elves or peredhils. They didn't make tracks in the snow. They didn't have round ears. They didn't make noise when they stepped.

He did, because he was a boy.

His father was a peredhil, a half-elven, and his mother was a woman. Estel supposed that there was just too much man in him to give him an elven light.

He wondered sometimes why his Ada had married his Nana. They had nothing in common, and they never spent any time together except at meals. And yet, he was their son. Estel really didn't understand. Elves weren't supposed to remarry; it wasn't their way. And yet his father had, because his older brothers were from Master Elrond's first marriage. Though his father wasn't fully elven; maybe that made a difference. Estel supposed that it also could be because his mother was so lovely.

She was beautiful, his mother, and golden like the girl in his dreams. Yet, Estel had always thought that she was very sad. It was sometimes exhausting to be in her presence, if for no other reason than, as he was a child, he wanted to yell and shout and laugh, and doing any of those things would disturb the air around her, as if she was a piece of statuary in the gardens that it felt wrong to speak in front of.

Estel knew little of his life before Imladris. He knew that he been born in the Angle, and that his mother had smiled and laughed then. He knew that he had lived with his human kin, and that his beginnings had been spoken in Westron. The boy supposed that his father had missed his mother and had not liked her being far away.

The idea of a life before Imladris had always fascinated Estel. He didn't remember much of that time, only small things. There had been a dog that sat by the fire, and Estel had called him Wolf, much to his mother's dismay. When he thought of then, of before, he could remember warm grey eyes that loved him, a barrel-chested man who tossed him into the air and gave the best hugs, and lullabies sung in Adûnaic, which was the ancient language of his people. After was coldness and sad faces, and a funeral dirge that sometimes he could still hear when he woke from his dreams in a cold sweat, which Estel didn't understand at all and made his mother pale when the little boy spoke of it.

He could remember nothing more than a handful of thoughts and memories from then, and yet there was a distinct feeling of before and after when he thought of Imladris. He didn't remember coming there; didn't remember making what must have been a perilous trip. He didn't remember the spaces between; the wilds of Eriador, or the way the mountains looked except from the hidden valley he had lived in for years. And yet, when he thought of that time before, when he was too young and too happy, a pervading feeling of loss rose up in him.

His Ada would not have him so. The boy knew this. He knew that his father wanted him to be happy, to make Imladris his home, and forget before. But it all seemed wrong somehow, like his life had been a road that forked, and his horse had carried him astray.

Westron lessons were in the mornings. He was fluent in Sindarin, and his Quenya was passable, if not fair, but he had to be drilled in Westron. It wasn't that his Westron was bad, his was excellent, but Master Erestor wanted him to have no accent when he spoke. It had crossed the boy's mind more than once that Sindarin would have been the language he spoke with traces of an accent, not Westron, had he grown up among his mother's people.

He knew that had he been raised among the Dúnedain that this was the way. When his Great-uncle Halamon and his Grandfather Dírhael visited sometimes, they told stories about the men of Westernesse, about the Angle. He learned then that men spoke Westron first, Sindarin second. Elves did it the other way around, yet he was a boy and he spoke Sindarin first.

No one would answer his questions. There was no good answer to any of it. When he asked his mother why they lived in Rivendell and not the Angle, she had said _because I want you to be safe_.

None of it made sense, and yet it was all he knew.

He wanted answers, but none were forthcoming.

But then the dreams had come.

Estel hated secrets, and yet it seemed like they filled his life sometimes. But his dreams were one thing that he had, that no one else knew about. They were _his _secret, and he planned to keep them that way. Lying back down in his bed, the young boy slowly drifted back to sleep, knowing that many hours still remained until morning, and the beginning of his birthday celebrations.

* * *

The birthday boy was roused by the gentle hands of his mother. Blinking tiredly, he smiled up at her. "Good morning, _Mamil_."

"Good morning, _onya_," his mother replied, smiling at him. Her grey eyes were abnormally happy and warm, and they made something good and right rise in Estel's chest. "A thousand blessings on your head; happy birthday."

"Thank you," he said, grinning. "I am six now. That's very old."

"And so you are, my winter born son who brought _Gwaeron _with him at his birth," Gilraen laughed. She embraced him and the small boy happily snuggled up to her, not yet having reached the age wherein he would learn to shun his mother's arms. Her golden hair fell around them, and a lock of it became caught in Estel's right fist.

As he disentangled his hand, Estel asked, "_Mamil_, why is your hair gold and mine black?"

"Hmm, you have the hair of our people," his mother said. "You have the true look of them, while my hair is a rarity that only crops up every few generations. It was very odd that both my brother and I had it."

"I had a dream about a woman with golden hair leading an army in battle," Estel said, momentarily forgetting his own resolve not to speak of his visions. "Do you think she could have been one of our family?"

"I doubt it," Gilraen said with an indulgent smile. "There have been no woman warriors in my father's line, though maybe your lady was a Shieldmaiden like my mother's mother's people sometimes were."

"She's not _my _lady," Estel protested. "I'm just a boy. Boys don't have ladies, only men."

"My apologies," Gilraen said, trying to keep a straight face.

"What's a Shieldmaiden?" Estel asked, his sudden pique forgotten.

"The Rohirrim, that is the people who call themselves the Eorlingas, live in Rohan, which they call the Mark. They are great lords of horses, and they command the fields and rolling hills near to Gondor. My grandmother was one of their number, until she was spirited away by a wild ranger who tempted her with tales of the North," Gilraen told him with twinkling eyes. "When I was a little girl, no bigger than you are now, she used to tell me about the Eorlingas, and about their people's history. Sometimes, when men went to battle, women went with them, and they called themselves Shieldmaidens. The tales speak of them as very fair and very beautiful, with valiant deeds to their names. They were not content to sit at home in their solars waiting for their menfolk to return. Instead, they would bear a sword and shield and go bravely into battle themselves, their golden hair unbound and blowing like a banner behind them."

Estel's mind momentarily flickered to the blonde girl—the one called Buffy—and knew that she must be a Shieldmaiden. She was strong and valiant, and he knew that she would not be content to wait patiently at home. No, she was a girl that would go boldly into battle.

"Do you think you would like to marry a Shieldmaiden, my son?" Gilraen asked him, not trying to hide her amusement anymore. "Should you like such an unbiddable wife?"

The little boy looked at his mother with a withering expression. "I don't have to think about marrying for ages and ages! I'm only six."

"Oh, just six? And to think, not that moments ago six was very old." She reached in quickly and tickled his sides.

Estel shrieked and laughed, jumping from his bed. He rushed into the bathroom, and saw that a bath had already been drawn from him. Knowing there was no getting out of it, he stripped and climbed in the claw-footed copper tub. Estel quickly worked the soap into a lather, and began washing all over. As he got clean, he could hear his mother singing in the other room as she put out his clothes for the day.

Estel laughed to himself. Mothers had such silly ideas sometimes. He had no plans to marry for years and years, and maybe not at all. Still, as he scrubbed behind his ears, the little boy admitted to himself that, if he were forced to marry, for his wife to be a Shieldmaiden would not be such a bad thing.

* * *

Because it was his birthday, he had been able to escape lessons with Master Erestor. The fussy elf was the lore master of Imladris, as well as a counselor to his father, and Estel was forced to attend lessons with him everyday. The Noldorin elf demanded excellence from his pupil, and that made for long hours practicing his script and his pronunciation in all the many languages he was required to learn.

But for once he was free to do as he liked. His Ada had excused him from lessons at breakfast, and now he was running wild along the steep banks of the Bruinen. The water in the river bank was flowing noisily, as it always did, rushing right along. It never dried up, not fully, because the river was constantly being fed by the snow melts. Estel ran across the narrow stone parapet which stretched over the river, nimbly making his way to the other side.

He ran through the trees, his fingers barely lingering on the bark and touching the branches as he passed. The ground was soft underfoot, and the weather mild despite it being the first day of the third month of the year. Being outside was liberating for the young boy, and he intended to take full advantage of his freedom. When he reached a clearing with trees that had branches low enough for him to climb, he clambered up into one of the pine trees, the scent of needles and sap filling his nose.

Half way up the tree, Estel paused, and looked out at the valley below him. Much of the Last Homely House was obscured, but he could see down the length of the great river as it twisted in a serpentine fashion into the rest of the hidden valley. From his perch, he felt so very big, rather than as small as he normally did.

A sound from his left drew his attention, and the boy looked over to see a raven at the end of the branch, cleaning its feathers. He relaxed then, though he noticed that the bird was looking at him keenly.

"Hello," he said, not really expecting a sensible answer from a bird.

But to his excitement and fascination, the bird replied in the Common Tongue, "Hello, young one."

"You can talk!" Estel gasped.

"My kin and I hail from Erebor. We were taught to speak by the dwarves there. Some still remain, but those of us who fled when the dragon came made our home in the Misty Mountains."

"Dragon?" Estel asked, his interest peaked.

"Smaug the Terrible," the raven said. "He came and took the Lonely Mountain. Most of us fled. Those who did not died a most painful death."

"I am sorry," Estel said, suddenly feeling very bad for the raven and his kin.

The raven inclined his head.

As the little boy looked at him, he had a strange pricking sensation that began at the back of his neck. It was as if he had known about ravens being able to speak before, and yet he didn't remember being told that. Yet somehow the raven talking to him didn't shock him as it ought to have.

It was impossible to say whether the memory flew to his mind because of the intense prophetic dreams he already had, or if it was because his foresight was more developed than the rest of his kin. It matters not. One moment, he was there in the tree next to a talking raven, and then suddenly he was not.

* * *

_He was in a garden, and the plants were very tall, some even taller than him. It took him a moment, but then he realized that it wasn't the plants that were bigger, rather he was shorter. Before he had time to dwell on that thought, he was hoisted up into a pair of strong arms and balanced on a man's hip. It was the barrel-chested man from his memories! He had kind grey eyes, and he was gazing at Estel as if he was the most fascinating thing in Middle-earth._

_Estel pointed up at the sky, grinning at the man. "Look! Bird."_

_"That's a raven," the strange man replied in a melodic tone. "It's odd to see one down this way, they normally stay closer to the northern peaks. You know, onya, there are legends that the dwarves of Durin's line once taught ravens to talk." He spoke to Estel as if he understood everything, despite the fact that he was very clearly a toddler. And the man called him 'onya'! That was a name that only his mother called him. Why would this stranger call him that?_

_"Arathorn!" The man turned with Estel still in his arms, and the boy could suddenly see his mother standing at the edge of the garden. She was wearing a broad smile on her face, and staring at the man in a way that Estel didn't understand. "Bedtime for our little one," Gilraen said. "And if you got him dirty, you will be the one to scrub him down, my love."_

_Arathorn smiled at her, and then looked at the boy in his arms. "Time to sleep, Aragorn. You can run in the garden more tomorrow."_

_"Not sleepy, Atto," Estel said, yawning._

_He laughed. "Oh, I think you are, my son. I think you are."_

* * *

Suddenly the kind grey eyes and the warm arms were gone, and Estel was sitting precariously on a tree branch once more. He tried to make sense of what he saw, but his mind refused to form the proper connections.

How could he have called that man _Atto_? That was the name for a father, and Master Elrond was his father.

Then, all of those things that had never made sense to him suddenly began to pull together in his mind. His mother never spent anytime with his father. His father was married before Estel's mother, even though elves only marry once and forever. He didn't have any elf-like traits at all, except foresight and that was something his mother's people had. His mother was so secretive with him, and sometimes it seemed as though words were on the tip of her tongue before she pulled them back.

His heart sank as he realized what it meant, and a queer feeling rose in his chest along with tears, which he furiously blinked back.

It was a long walk to return to the Last Homely House. His hands were raw from climbing, but that was nothing to the abused feeling in his heart. At just six, he had never had occasion to feel such a way before—it was entirely unrecognizable to him—and had he been older he would have recognized the feeling as betrayal.

The twins called out a birthday greeting as he crossed into the courtyard, but he didn't look up. He didn't even acknowledge them. He just kept walking. One of them must have alerted everyone else, for he was stopped at the base of the stairs to his room by his mother and Master Elrond, both of them looking concerned.

"_Onya_, what is it? What has happened?" Gilraen said anxiously, reaching out a hand to his face.

The little boy jerked away from her hand, and glared at her mutinously. His lip was trembling, and his eyes were filled with tears, and he had to clench his small jaw to prevent them from spilling forth.

"Estel, what's wrong?" Elrond then asked, making a terrible mistake.

"That's not my name!" the little boy cried out, tears falling now. "And you, you are not my father! You're liars, both of you!"

Gilraen gasped, jerking back, while Elrond's face clouded over.

"_Onya_, please, tell me what's happened," Gilraen pleaded, looking as if she too might weep.

"I remembered," the small Dúnadan bit off. "I remembered _Atto_, and I remembered before here too. My father's name was Arathorn, not Elrond. Where is he?" he demanded. "Did you run away with me? My _atto _loved me, and you just took me away!"

"No," his mother cried, falling to her knees before him. "I didn't take you from him. He died, _onya_; he died. When you were just a toddling babe. We came here so that you could be safe."

"Estel—" Elrond began.

"Don't call me that!" he sobbed out. "That is not my name!"

The peredhil sighed heavily. "You are right. That it not your name—Aragorn."

The little boy sighed, his chest feeling tight again, but this time it was because of the fullness that he suddenly felt. Despite his continued anguish at his mother and Master Elrond's betrayal, Aragorn's face lit in a tiny smile. Yes, that was right. He was Aragorn son of Arathorn.

He would not forget again.


End file.
